Fool's Paradise
by frigginapplepie
Summary: John Locke thinks he's seeing things.


A/N: Written as of late per inspiration from 3x3. Does not exactly follow the main plot line, but hey, it's my fic, I have that right. Set between 1x20 and 1x22.

Thanks to Eva and Becca for beta'ing this for me, and for the compliments on it. You two pwn like woahness. Dedicated to those two, and Amber, because, well, I have no one else to dedicate this to at the moment.

Reviews are appreciated, so if you'd leave a comment, not only will I respond, but I'll love you forever and ever and ever.

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His form was bathed almost surreally, seeming to come from a light that was otherwise nonexistent. The gentlest of glows surrounded his figure as he bent over, long hair dangling in front of his eyes, unkempt from the many long minutes and hours that he had been unable to groom it. The vibrant blue of his eyes darted around him for a moment until he caught sight of the clean shaven man sitting off on his own near the shore of the beach. 

A slight frown creased his features, both in his lips and in his brow. For a moment, the angelic effigy hesitated, wanting to go forward and console the older man in the ways that only he could provide relief for, but knowing that it was not the time. There was another time for that; there was still a moment of self-healing that needed to be accomplished before that.

His bright blue eyes, seeing past the thin streams of extremely dark hair, picked up on each slightest movement of the older man, and when he began to slump forward, it was detected almost fluidly. Before it even happened, each shift in his body and position was read and anticipated: first the hunch of the shoulders forward, then the shifting of the legs, until finally he was in a loose arc, arms outstretched on the sandy ground, fists balled tight. It was difficult to see, but the pain was all too evident in the way that the back heaved slowly in what couldn't have been anything but sobs.

It had only been two days. The scars were still fresh, the wounds still open, salt slowly pouring inside the cuts and scrapes until screams were pealing forth, filled with terror and anguish and incredulity that such a thing had happened.

"Poor John," came the near silent whisper from the figure's lips, watching with a pity in his eyes that was hard, if not impossible, to define with words.

He took a careful step forward, but stopped when he heard the flourished, exaggerated steps of someone storming away, another pair of gentler, hastening footfalls hurrying to keep pace with the first set. A heavily accented voice begged, "Shannon, please," but to now avail, for the blonde girl passed by with swollen eyes and red cheeks without so much as a second thought, the man following behind at a steady pace, yet always keeping his distance.

The dark haired model of deadly perfection watched with a different sense arousing within him, mixed and unsettled. It wasn't love, it wasn't hate, it wasn't anything that could be summarized. It was yet another blank emotion, completing yet another piece of him in solid alikeness.

He let out a sigh, once more taking a step toward the huddled man that had so willingly carried the blame for the happenings, so readily tolerated the shunning and bitter looks that were cast in his direction by those that had only just been considered a friend of his. With long, firm strides, he reached the bald, fallen hunter, his lips parting to allow a gentle breath to escape before he knelt down next to his side.

Almost hesitantly, the angelic hallucination placed a hand on the curved, broad shoulder blade. A shiver surged through both bodies, and the bent form of John Locke tensed quite visibly, his back lessening in its arc.

The hand was drawn back almost instantly, its person forgetting for a moment all else except for the simple fact that he had perhaps been too quick, too hurried in his antics. Maybe a warning would have been a better way to start things, a simple, "Hey, I'm coming," sent through a dream; but that wasn't what happened, and it was too late for it to go any other way.

There was a moment of silence, in which he sat up straight, looking around him almost uncertainly, searching for the form that was there, yet never present. It was a moment of faith, in which all beliefs were forgotten in the light of the knowing something that could not be, yet was.

There was confusion in his blue-green eyes, as they darted around, trying to catch sight of something, someone, but resting upon nothing except for Shannon and Sayid in the distance, one comforting the other as she cried into his chest. He exhaled heavily and audibly, licking his lower lip and closing his eyes, hoping against all hope that whatever had come to him would show itself.

When he opened his eyes, it was almost instinct to shut them again.

Boone Carlyle, in all his battered, bloodied, ripped-garb appearance, knelt with drawn lips and a steady expression just beside him. With a missed beat in his words, Locke breathed, "Boone?" and was surprised at just how horribly frightened it sounded.

The figure nodded his head once, slow and positive, before he said without the movement of his lips, "That's right, John."

A lapse skipped between them as Boone's almost glowing figure shifted its weight from one foot to the other, every essence of patience present in each fiber of his being. His head tilted to the side slightly, almost as though the dark haired, blue eyed man of the dead was examining the emblem of the living in his natural state, waiting for a sign to go on.

It came when Locke asked, "How can it…" before trailing off into silence.

"I'm dead, John," Boone replied without needing to hear a reply. "And it's not because of you. Rest easy tonight. They'll see it soon enough."

The older man blinked once, and when his lids lifted again, Boone was no longer there; however, beside him in the sand was the faintest impression of a footprint, and he could only vaguely feel the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder.

That night, Locke slept, without worry of what would come to be the next day. Boone watched on, a grim smile on his face, before he turned his back to the island and took his first step toward salvation.


End file.
